


The Elite Programme

by PurpleFluffyCat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Partners, Aurors, Backstory, Biting, Class Differences, Community: daily_deviant, Dominance, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Rough Sex, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:53:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25749949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleFluffyCat/pseuds/PurpleFluffyCat
Summary: To say it was hate-at-first-sight would not quite be accurate.Thus thought Rufus, after the event. It was more of an intense distaste, overlaid by a curiosity so powerful that it repulsed them both as keenly as they felt it.
Relationships: Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody/Rufus Scrimgeour
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5
Collections: Daily Deviant





	The Elite Programme

**Author's Note:**

  * For [r_grayjoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/r_grayjoy/gifts).



> Written for r_grayjoy in Daily Deviant's 2020 Banging Birthday Bash. I thoroughly enjoyed imagining the backstories of the young Rufus Scrimgeour and Alastor Moody, and letting the sparks fly when they were thrown together!

_To say it was hate-at-first-sight would not quite be accurate._ Thus thought Rufus, after the event. It was more of an intense distaste, overlaid by a curiosity so powerful that it repulsed them both as keenly as they felt it.

*****

**Day 1**

It was the first day of training for the Elite Auror programme. A small group of new recruits sat in the inner sanctum of the Ministry, waiting for Chief Auror Worthington to arrive. Rufus knew most of them, of course: the right people; the right connections; the right grades.

_That_ one, though, he most certainly did not know: the oik sat opposite with narrowed eyes, a patched leather overcoat, and a barely-disguised scowl. The man’s hand twitched at his wand almost impulsively; he was crunched forward, every muscle tense. He looked about to attack.

Unconsciously – or perhaps to heighten the difference between them – Rufus crossed his legs, and lounged back on the wood-panelled bench. He said some throw-away, terribly amusing thing to one of the people he knew, and adjusted his robes to best aesthetic effect.

Indeed, Rufus had been much admired at Hogwarts for his lean, lightly-muscled figure – by many of his peers, and even by certain prestigious Professors. His recommendation letter to the Auror Corps had come from Professor Albus Dumbledore himself – recently awarded Order of Merlin, First Class. Together with the Scrimgeour family connections to high places in the Ministry, and his excellent NEWT results, Rufus’ place was almost certainly assured from the start.

In contrast, the ruffian nearby was short and stocky, with unkempt hair and a bit of a belly. He was probably a touch older than Rufus, too – in his mid-twenties? When he scowled, a gold peg glinted in the place of a canine tooth. His accent – barked at the receptionist on the way in – suggested little in the way of formal education, and he stank of firewhisky – even now, at eight in the morning.

Rufus found himself overwhelmed by curiosity. _What on earth was that scoundrel doing here?_

He feigned politeness, and cast a winning smile – that did not quite reach his eyes – across the room. “Rufus Scrimgeour. Pleased to make your acquaintance. And you are?”

There was a distrustful pause, but finally the man spoke. “Moody.” Rufus raised an eyebrow, which elicited a sneer. “ _Alastor_ Moody.”

“Ah, and where are you from, my good man?”

Again, that pause. “Scunlow. What of it?”

Rufus knew the name, but had never been there. Scunlow was the wizarding quarter of Glasgow; it was thought to be so rough, so dangerous, that even the Aurors didn’t set foot in the place.

“And you?” Moody cocked his head in challenge.

“Eaton, near Windsor.” Rufus’ voice oozed confidence as he said it – but then he couldn’t help feeling discombobulated by the smirk that followed his pronouncement, and the way that Moody looked him up and down… almost as if he could see right through Rufus’ fine robes and was appraising him nude. That absurd thought gave Rufus an even more absurd shiver.

Trying to get himself back on kilter, Rufus set off more aggressively than he had meant to. “And what could you possibly know about the Art and Science of pursuing and detaining Dark Wizards, eh?”

“-Knowing about Dark Wizards? Ptthh!” Moody spat. “Until last week, I _was_ one. Stuff that in yer _Art and Science_.” He laughed, but not in amusement; it was a harsh, rough sound.

Their exchange was cut short by the Chief Auror sweeping into the room. Everyone sat up a little straighter – even Moody, who Rufus couldn’t help watching from the corner of his eye.

Auror Worthington did not need to call the party to order before he began. “Good morning. Welcome to your new life as the Ministry’s finest – those of you who make it through the programme, that is.” Everyone sat up straighter, still.

Worthington went on to explain the structure of their first weeks and months of training: students would be partnered, and – after a few preliminary exercises in the Ministry – would essentially be dispatched to the field to make themselves useful. Those pairs who showed promise as early-career Aurors would be promoted to the next stage of the Elite programme, whereas the rest would become rank-and-file members of the workforce. 

“And now, we come to the partnership arrangements.” Worthington retrieved a scroll from an inner sleeve. “Right. Crowley, you’ll be with Winslow.” He gestured at the named recruits. “Good, yes. Fawcett with Smith.” Some shifting and pointing ensued. “Yes, that’s right – _Nebuchadnezzar_ Smith… _Eloise_ Smith, your partner is Patel.” 

Several other pairs were announced. Rufus frowned as the reading went on. “…And that just leaves us with… ah, yes.” Worthington gave a small, private smile. “Scrimgeour and Moody. Our final pair.

“Now, please speak with your partner, to plan your first assigned watch. You will be together almost constantly for the next few months, so you’d better start talking, now. Good morning, all”.

Rufus watched as the Chief Auror abandoned him and the door clicked shut. He felt a flush rising in his cheeks and a prickling of his skin, hot and silent as the cheerful hubbub of others grew around him.

If the look on Moody’s face was anything to go by, they were equally appalled.

*****

**Day 5**

The cabin in which they were billeted was chill and remote. They had been hiding out for hours, now, on a tip-off about a gang of Necromancers that didn’t seem to be holding water.

Rufus was bored. He sighed, and took a sideways look at Moody, who seemed to be glaring into the further distance. “Soooo… how long do you think we just sit here, and-”

“-Shhh!”

“What do you mean, ‘shhh!’?” Rufus sounded positively indignant.

“I mean, ‘shut yer trap’. They’re almost close.”

Rufus frowned, and peered out again through the window of their Disillusioned hide. There was nothing. Absolutely bloody nothing.

_Great,_ he thought. Not only am I stuck here with the most socially dysfunctional training partner one could have, it turns out he’s mad, as well.

Rufus had only a few moments to ponder that conclusion, however, before his reverie was broken by a commotion outside. A gang of twelve had just Apparated into the clearing before them, heavily cloaked, and wands poised on high alert. They dragged with them cowering creatures in chains: two house elves, a young centaur and a Muggle child. The captives looked terrified.

“Now!” shouted Moody, and before Rufus could react – or even locate his wand, for that matter – Moody had Apparated into plain view of the gang and began a blistering offensive, twelve-on-one.

The Necromancers played dirty, but Moody knew every trick they had, and then some. Magic powered from his wand of such brilliance, Rufus had never seen the like. His unruly hair flew about him and his eyes danced, indulgent and gleeful as he span hex after charm after hex that disabled and bound each of the miscreants with ease. It was lucid and brilliant, and quite unlike anything Rufus had seen before – a release of raw _power_. Unschooled, untrammelled, unrepentant. It was magic in its purest form, bright and blinding.

In the long, surreal, seconds that followed, Rufus sensed that his mouth was dry, his pulse was cantering, and his every pore and hair prickled. He gawped at Alastor with fresh eyes. How had he not seen it before? The man was alight, afire; some kind of strange genius. 

Gazing on like that, Rufus realised he was half-hard.

In some back-end of his brain, Rufus thought that he might feel embarrassed not to have done anything of use in the attack, but such notions were secondary to that sense of awe, now – and that mounting sense of _need_. “How did you…?”

Moody shrugged, and all of a sudden he was back to his previous self – sullen and inward. “Yer’ve just gotta look, ain’t ya? Sense the bastards coming.” But there was dignity in his words.

Rufus gave an involuntary twitch of the head, like a niffler with something stuck on its nose, and then he blinked hard. He tried to push away those absurd carnal thoughts – _where on earth had they come from?_

“Jolly good,” he managed, non-committally.

They bundled the Necromancers in _Petrificus Totalus_ , and sent them by Portkey back to Ministry headquarters. Then, the clearing was once again bare and quiet.

It was not the dull quiet of before, though; the quiet now seemed somehow agitated, expectant. Rufus felt moved to do something, say something, _know_ something. 

He couldn’t quite form the thoughts or the words. Clearly, the mission had been a success, but… camaraderie still seemed to be thin on the ground. And that seemed now oddly _wrong_ , and yet…

“Why are you here? In the Auror corps, I mean.” It had come out sounding much harsher than Rufus had meant it to, and he cursed himself as the words splattered into a sneer on Alastor’s face.

“None of yer bloody business, is it?”

Rufus straightened, as if he had been struck. “Very well; have it your way.” He flounced off, thoroughly over-compensating for that discombobulated feeling in his breast and the ridiculous residual tingle in his blood.

*****

**Day 24**

Finding this group of Dark Wizards had taken every trick in Rufus’ book. They’d started with a tip-off from Gringotts’ stocks and bonds – some irregularity in the balance sheets. Upon closer inspection, it had been a matter of Arithmancy – a code left within the ledger that led straight to an address in Knockturn Alley. The problem was, the address was marked as ‘unoccupied’ – but after a bit of rootling in his Father’s copy of _The Classified Magical Land Registry for Elite Wizards_ , Rufus had tracked the property to a collective, allegedly based in the British Virgin Islands. From there, it had been a simple case of asking the right questions to some ex-Slug Club members – dropping a box of crystallised pineapple to old Sluggy himself, for good measure – and, _BAM_. Three obvious suspects were theirs. The charge: trans-national embezzlement and global fraud, leading to the collapse of seventy-six honest British firms. The Ministry were very interested in this one. Very interested, indeed.

Now all that was left was decoding the real location of the operation’s headquarters, from the Charmed Howlers that Rufus had intercepted. There was a particularly complex series of enchantments, here, which took all his Advanced Reverse Spellwork from NEWTS, and a bit more, besides. 

They were huddled in a makeshift base not far from the London Central Owl Exchange. There was a desk, of sorts, and a grimy window overlooking a backstreet. Other than that, the room was bare; it must have been some kind of warehouse, in its time. 

Rufus leaned further over the stack of papers and distractedly twiddled the end of his quill with his tongue. He was close, he was sure he was close…

Indeed, he was so absorbed with calculations, Rufus almost didn’t notice Moody watching him. _Almost_.

He caught a glance from the corner of his eye. The expression – Rufus had to take a second peek as he didn’t believe it at first – could have been described as… admiring. He didn’t react, but felt his ears flush as Alastor’s gaze settled upon him, and a fluttery feeling unsettled his stomach. Suddenly, it was difficult to concentrate.

Rufus furrowed his brow to emphasise the scholarly effort, and tilted his head at an artistic angle – vain enough to know how his long, silky hair fell about his shoulders _just so_. He arched his back, gyrating slightly in his seat to showcase his shapely form, tight buttocks clad in expensive trousers tilting upward as his spine curled.

All the while, he knew that Alastor’s eyes were on him. Absurdly, he _wanted_ that gaze; bathed in it. The rational part of his mind couldn’t fathom why – perhaps it had been too long since he’d been out with the chaps, for surely it would be easy to find a dozen better specimens, but… _by Merlin_ , there was something about Moody that had gotten under his skin.

With an effort, Rufus schooled his thoughts back to the task at hand; he certainly didn’t want to embarrass himself. He peered afresh at the puzzle before him… and then, with a deeply satisfying intellectual click: “Aha! Got it.”

“Mhhgh?” asked Moody. There was a delay in his reaction, as if he’d been distracted, too.

“Yes. The code is from the _Vellamanius_ series – you know, the original Latin – but they’ve inverted it through a textual version of the Confundus Charm. From this note, dated the fifth, we can see that the headquarters is based in the-”

\- SMASH. The flash of green light was the last thing Rufus saw, and Alastor colliding with him, hurling him down to the ground with his full weight, was the last thing he felt before the world went black.

*****

**Day 25**

Slowly, Rufus woke – and then he wished he hadn’t. Everything bloody hurt. As he cracked his eyes open, he took in the bleep of monitoring Charms and the sickly-green walls; he concluded he must be in St. Mungo’s.

He saw a figure looming over him. “Oh, good. Wakey wakey, young sir!”

Rufus attempted to draw his dignity about him. “Iaammm awake,” he slurred.

“And about time, too!” said the Mediwitch, with brisk good humour, “Your friend has been waiting anxiously for you, for hours.”

Rufus furrowed his brow. Which ‘friend’ could that be? He hadn’t seen his friends for weeks. He followed the Mediwitch’s gesture to the figure standing at the bottom of the bed, and… _Oh._

All of a sudden, it came crashing back: the Howlers, the Charms, the old warehouse – the flash of deathly green.

“You’re lucky, actually,” she went on. “The full force of the Killing Curse must have missed you only by an inch. You’ll feel rotten for a few days owing to the peripheral effects, but no permanent damage done.” The Mediwitch bustled off, then, satisfied that Rufus had pulled through, and with other patients to treat. 

Rufus tried to sit up, but a second later thought better of it. Instead, he swallowed hard, and used all his effort to focus properly on Moody, standing there at the end of the bed like a gargoyle – or was it a sentinel?

“You… saved my life.”

“Yeah.” Moody shrugged.

A long pause sat there between them. Rufus’ head swam, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t just the Spell Shock. He swallowed again and took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

Moody harrumphed and turned away, but Rufus couldn’t help but think it was just a show. 

No; like it or not, something important had passed between them, now. Perhaps it was just happenstance – a difficult day that would be forgotten as quickly as it had cropped up – but perhaps… _perhaps_ , they didn’t despise each other, after all.

*****

**Day 31**

Rufus woke in a sweat, erect and desperate.

As he sought relief with his own hand, there was only one image that flooded his mind: snagged grimace, heavy gait, magic wild and dangerous. 

The magnetism was undeniable, the fire irresistible, and when his eyes lit up that that…

…ahhh!

_Bloody hell_ , thought Rufus, afterwards - now _he_ was going mad.

Sated and dreamy, Rufus drifted off again, the sensible part of his brain assuring him that it must have been just a funny turn. Dodgy-looking ruffians like that were most certainly not his type, after all.

No; not for a moment. Not in the slightest.

*****

**Day 45**

The illegal substances in their base had come as a surprise.

Rufus had returned four hours earlier than expected; the trail that he had tried to follow in the library archives had gone cold before he’d really had a chance to start. Now, he was staring at the large crate of Class A Non-Tradeable Materials and wondering what to do about it.

It was Alastor’s. That much was obvious from the careful, almost invisible, placement of the box beneath a side-bench – but Rufus had cast _Appare Vestigium_ just to be sure: the ghostly impression of Moody Apparating to Scunlow, exchanging Galleons, and then Owling others that the goods had come in, had lit up before him, painting conundrum, deception and disappointment sickly-aglow in the air.

Alastor had been gone for mere moments to send the notes, and would be back presently. Rufus paced the room, and eyed the package warily, very much hoping it wasn’t going to twitch. It was still wrapped in shoddy Concealment Charms, fresh from Columbia. Minutes before, he had cracked open the crate and peered in. Acromantula eggs. Charming.

Really, Rufus reasoned, he should report the crime. It would be a moment’s work: Apparate the evidence to the Ministry, cast _Priori Incantem_ to Worthington, and _job done._ There would be an unexpected extra credit on Rufus’ record, and he’d be swiftly re-paired with a more suitable Elite Programme training partner.

That thought gave Rufus an unexpected pang: _he’d be swiftly re-paired._ Suddenly. Just like that, and…

There was not time for him to finish that thought, however, as Moody stalked into the room. Upon seeing Rufus there, he froze. His eyes twitched from Rufus to the package and back again, and an expression of pure, pitiful panic jumped to his eyes. He didn’t say a word, but just stayed put, immobile; scared.

Rufus had never seen Alastor react thus – to any threat or danger. No; quite the opposite. He was usually lucid and fearless in the face of an aggressor, livid magic flowing from him in a way that was frankly beautiful. Absurdly, Rufus was struck by an overwhelming desire to restore Alastor’s might, to get back the sight of that strange exquisiteness.

The silence stretched between them for what seemed like days.

Finally, Rufus exhaled, and spoke. “So… is there anything you’d like to tell me?” He was shocked at how soft his voice sounded; how complicit.

Alastor gulped, and just stared on for a while like a frightened pygmy puff. He seemed to be waiting for something awful to happen, his eyes darting to the door and to the Floo. 

When, at last, nothing seemed to be moving or changing, a slight furrow appeared on Alastor’s brow. “You… didn’t report me?”

“No, I didn’t,” Rufus replied slowly.

Alastor narrowed his eyes. “Why?” There was a sharpness to those words, now; he was clearly expecting some sort of blackmail. 

Rufus gave an insouciant shrug, and then cursed himself as he realised he had been wondering whether the gesture set off his figure to best advantage. _Even now, for Merlin’s sake?_ “It seems I’ve become used to having you around,” he managed.

The words hung between them. Alastor was bundled tense; like a wounded animal it seemed as if he might lash out. Finally, though, he relaxed a margin, and nodded once; an uncomfortable jerk of the head. “Thanks.”

Rufus let out the breath that he hadn’t realised he had been holding. For some reason, he didn’t dare move much, either, but reciprocated the nod.

They let the words settle in the still space – as if the pact had been somehow flammable and needed to be handled with the utmost care. The room simmered gently; little by little, the heat subsided.

Finally, Alastor looked away. He scrubbed one palm against his face and sniffed, his gaze settling into the middle distance. “It’s for me mam.” The words were so quiet, Rufus had to strain to hear them. “The cash, I mean. I sell to get ‘er the medicine she needs.”

“Oh.” Rufus realised he had nothing clever to say.

“Got sucked in ter the racket when I was a lad. All sorts. They start yer young on easy stuff, but then it gets more and more dangerous. Most lads me age had broken by the time that… well...” He trailed off.

“And, now?...” Rufus ventured. His every fibre was focussed on Alastor; intensely curious.

“Now?” He barked a humourless laugh. “Well, who knows?” Alastor shook his head, but when he started speaking again it was stronger; impassioned. “The thing is, it ain’t nice out there. It’s lonely, and yer gotta watch yer back the whole time. I s’pose I was quite good at it, seeing’s I didn’t get killed and made me way for all those years. Looked after me mam, who ain’t got no-one else, not since… ” His voice then became quieter; almost shy. “-Yer don’t know what it’s like do yer? Course yer don’t. Being born into it, I mean. Me mam, she’s in pain all the time with the Spell Damage, and can’t go to a Mediwizard ‘cause then they’d start asking questions about the whole bloody thing. How it happened; how she ended up like that. So, I sold for years to look after us.”

Rufus nodded, hoping Alastor would go on.

“An’ then, Auror Worthington saw me one day, fighting a raid in the streets. I held off five Aurors on me own and made away with the stash. He tracked me, though. I got an Owl the next morning offering a chance to go straight – and the pay that goes with it. Ter change side. I thought hard for a while… and in the end reckoned I had nothing to lose, so I said ‘yes’, and… well, yer know the rest.”

Rufus considered; he didn’t _quite_ know the rest. “So why?...” He gestured vaguely at the contraband crate.

At that, Alastor looked absolutely miserable. “It’s like I said… Was just supposed to be this last time, for the cash.” When Rufus’ expression showed little comprehension, he went on. “Yeah, I’m signed up to this gig, now – and I do mean to give it me best shot, I _do_ \- but they don't pay yer until the end of the first block of training, do they, and this month..."

“Oh.” Rufus’ eyes widened, at that. In truth, it had not occurred to him to wonder as to when they would be paid. That sort of administration happened automatically in his Gringotts account – as a background sort of thing. 

His first inclination was to offer a loan, or just to sling Moody a few Galleons, for Merlin’s sake – Rufus didn’t actually recall what their starting salary was supposed to be, but it couldn’t be _that_ much. He quickly thought better of it, though; the repercussions of further damaging Alastor’s pride was not a risk he was willing to take.

Instead of waiting for a reply, Alastor spoke again – imploringly, now. “It’s the last time, I promise. I swear.”

“Alright,” managed Rufus, “I have your word.” He tried to sound final about it, and Alastor relaxed a tad, unrooting himself from the doorway and sitting down at the table.

With the new information, though, Rufus’ mind was racing; surfacing all of those questions that had been simmering beneath the surface for weeks. “Your _magic_ ,” he started, fascination bubbling up now. “How did you…” Rufus trailed off, but made a vague complimentary gesture in Alastor’s direction.

Alastor actually laughed – and there was some cheer in it, this time. “Ha. It’s just practice, I guess. Sleeping with one eye open the whole time for fear of yer life does create a bit of an incentive, yer know?”

Rufus nodded, abstractedly; he had never had cause to sleep anything but soundly in his feather bed, to be honest. He titled his head, now feeling uncommonly earnest. “I daresay there’s some natural talent in there, as well.”

Alastor shrugged and looked away. He shook his straggly hair across his face in a way that – if Rufus wasn’t entirely mistaken – was designed to conceal a blush.

*****

**Day 69**

“Impressive record. You’ve both passed to the next phase. Congratulations are in order.” Chief Auror Worthington shook both their hands, and gave a smile that evoked that familiar, comfortable feeling in Rufus’ breast that he was part of the club. _About time, too._

It was the end of a long Friday, at the end of a long couple of months. Rufus was exhausted, but also proud of the many reprobates they had caught, the schemes they had intercepted, and the lives they had saved.

Amazingly, he was also glad to have made a new… Mentally, he grappled for the word. ‘Friend’ sat uneasily; his feelings toward and about Alastor were both somewhat less than friendship, and much more. There was respect, fascination, and, well… _lust_. He’d given up trying to deny it to himself. He _wanted_ Moody – over a desk, pushed up against a wall, in the middle of the night – he didn’t care, really. He just knew the frisson he felt, day in day out – with his partner right there: scowling; thinking; looking; being so bloody clever; letting rip with those frankly visceral outpourings of magic – meant his self-control couldn’t go on for ever.

And Rufus was pretty sure the fascination went both ways.

They walked out of the Ministry building together, slipping onto the London streets.

“I suppose you’d better come back to my flat for a drink, then.” Rufus affected nonchalance, but his heart was thundering. A beat fell between them; it was the longest few seconds Rufus could remember enduring.

“Yeah. Alright.”

A strange relief washed over him. Rufus pulled himself together quickly, and Apparated them both to the sitting room of his Mayfair address.

“So… drink?” He snagged a crystal decanter from the sideboard, suddenly feeling like an anxious host.

Alastor looked on for another long moment; he seemed tense. “Firewhisky. None of yer namby-pamby stuff.”

“I can assure you that the contents of this decanter could slay a Norwegian Ridgeback.”

Moody tossed his head in assent and accepted a generous pour. The tension in the room climbed down a notch or so; they’d managed the first mark of basic socialising. Although the two had spent most waking hours together for the past ten weeks, that was explicitly by force of circumstance – and it had been acted out by both of them through an increasingly thin pantomime of grudging acquiescence. Now, this was the first time they had spent time together by choice, and it seemed to be some kind of test; two strong egos settling into a joint space. Both drank deeply.

They spoke cautiously about the cases they’d solved, and what might be on the horizon next. Tonight marked the beginning of a fortnight of leave. Although he could definitely do with some time to sleep and recover, Rufus felt strangely bereft at the upcoming gap; the fact that he wouldn’t be seeing Alastor each morning, like clockwork.

“Any more of that good stuff?” Alastor stood, and held out his glass. He almost seemed to be preparing for something.

“Why, of course.” Rufus hastened over again, to pour. He slipped the stopper from the decanter, and tilted the bottle carefully over Alastor’s glass, waiting for the meniscus to tip – and as he was doing so, something most extraordinary happened:

Rufus felt Alastor grip his upper arm, hard. Immediately, he looked up, and found in Alastor’s eyes an expression of such intensity his heart jumped to his throat and his blood lit, as if by _Incendio_. His lips parted slightly, he heard Alastor give a soft gasp, and then the next thing he knew, Alastor’s mouth was crushed to his own, demanding and hungry and wonderful.

Then Alastor’s hands were on him, pulling at his robes in a frenzy – slipping beneath, on the planes of his chest, down his back – and when his top half was bare, locked around his slender waist, pulling him forward, rough and possessive. It happened in a heady blur, kissing all the while, and it was only when Rufus groaned with Alastor’s fingertips scrubbing across his nipple that he gathered the presence of mind to put down the decanter.

He set to, then, in returning the exploration, tearing at Alastor’s robes to find the man beneath. Rufus was accustomed to lovers with a physique similar to his own: coiffed and sculpted. The furious fire in his blood told him that this was much, much better. Alastor was real and raw, and perfectly imperfect: hard with muscle that comes from years of survival on the mean streets, overlaid with the softness of couldn’t-care-less-pie-and-chips that Rufus just wanted to hold, grab and sink into. There was no posing, no comparisons, just a passion that was beyond any Rufus has felt, that made his eyes roll backward and his legs weak – the world contracting now to just Alastor claiming him, and him claiming Alastor in return.

Suddenly, Rufus found himself completely nude, the rest of his clothes Banished haphazardly to the floor.

“You didn’t waste any time,” he managed, the imperious tone he’d intended completely ruined by the little mewling sound he made when Alastor took him in hand. “Ohh, _Merlin…_ ”. The rough grip was so good, so _needed_.

But that grip only ignited in him a further need – he had to take Alastor now, to feel him yield and gasp and buck beneath him with his whole, powerful form. Rufus slid his hands downward and squeezed Alastor’s naked arse – not tight little buns; delicious and solid and satisfying. Rufus was so hard now, being pumped like that – _ohhh,_ they’d have to move soon: Alastor down on his hands and knees on the fine carpet, or maybe on his back so Rufus could hook his legs over his own shoulders and watch Alastor’s face come apart while pounding deep. _Gods yes…_.

Something curious happened then, though – still pumping him, Alastor seemed to be twisting his hips, trying to get Rufus to turn around.

“No, I think you’ll find-” started Rufus, suddenly alert. This wasn’t the way that Scrimgeours did things.

Alastor smirked, and then bit the junction of Rufus’ throat and collarbone, which made his gasp and throw his head backward, exposing yet more of his tender neck. The hand that wasn’t on Rufus’ cock kneaded his balls, now, inching backward in a way that made Rufus quiver, the tension coiling within him almost unbearably tight. Blindly, Rufus groped Alastor’s sides, running his hands down his belly until he found Alastor’s cock: short, extremely thick, rock-hard and leaking. It felt beautiful.

Alastor gave out a guttural moan when Rufus took him in hand, only increasing his urgency. “Bend over, Pretty Boy,” he leered.

“Not bloody likely...” Rufus tried to sound imperious, but his voice was ragged and breathless to his own ears.

A questing finger made its way between Rufus’ legs – rough, but somehow covered in oil. He couldn’t help part his thighs, and then, when he was touched _there_ , his knees quivered and a most ungentlemanly groan escaped his throat.

“That’sit,” hissed Moody in satisfaction, and pushed his finger into Rufus, like a duellist claiming his prize.

Rufus gasped and sank downwards, unconsciously seeking ever more contact, fireworks going off in every nerve ending that Alastor grazed as his eyes slid shut and his mouth formed a silent scream.

From there, he was utterly lost. Rufus let himself be spun around, and draped over the back of the antique sofa. He was beyond caring about his dignity, now; whimpering and needy, and curving his arse upward, open and ready and…

- _Aaah!_

Alastor had used more oil, but otherwise hadn’t wasted a moment in plunging himself into Rufus’ begging behind. The stretch was tremendous. Alastor knew it, and was kind enough to pause as he stole some ragged breaths, to let Rufus adjust, and then-

“-Come on then, if you’re going to fuck me…” Rufus attempted to sound like his old self when issuing the challenge-

-which was very quickly snatched up. Alastor growled then, as he seized Rufus’ hips and pounded fiercely, making Rufus cry out and push backward to meet every stroke, so hard and close and wanton, now – nearly at the brink, straining toward release while wishing this would never end, concentrated only on the feel of Alastor inside him, what Alastor was _doing_ to him, what he, Rufus, was _letting_ Alastor do to him….

In such a frenzied state, Rufus couldn’t last long. He was panting and gasping and nearly sobbing with the exquisite torture of it, and as Alastor battered _that_ place with every thrust – again and again, so hard and thick and fast and full – Rufus finally gave in, groaning his climax from the very bottom of his lungs as his vision swum to black.

Rufus’ legs threatened to buckle beneath him as the waves of release washed through his form. Alastor was having none of that, though: he held Rufus in place against the sofa like a doll, ramming home until his own pleasure was spent. Rufus felt the hands on his hips grab so tightly they would leave marks, and a great rush of wet heat, deep inside.

Then, there was a great stillness, the silence punctuated only two sets of breathless gasping. After a long moment, Alastor extricated himself from Rufus, and they both moved to the front of the sofa, collapsing sweaty, messy and side-by-side on the fine velvet. 

_How odd_ , Rufus thought, that he didn’t mind a bit.

He looked across at Alastor – far from handsome, but heinously attractive. That magic was too good not to experience again, and soon.

Rufus cleared his throat. “Next time, I’m on top.” He did his best to sound masterful – but while the accent was there, it had something of a dopey lilt.

Alastor harrumphed, but didn’t say no. In fact, a rather lovely expression of contentment spread across his features, at the mention of _next time_.

*****

_To say it was love-at-first-sight would not quite be accurate._ Thus thought Rufus, after the event. It was more of an intense admiration, overlaid by a thrill so powerful that it crossed the divides, magnified magic’s potency, and wove the very fabric of the British Auror tradition, for years to come.

The Elite Programme had found its most successful graduates – and they had found each other.


End file.
